


Colds suck

by orphan_account



Series: Little Randoms [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 11:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13234509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: And it sure is nice to havesupportivefriends, right?  Right.





	Colds suck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StrongheartMaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrongheartMaid/gifts).



> Disclaimer: you know the drill, I don't own FFXV or any of its content. I just play in the sandbox SE has created.
> 
> A/N: for the lovely strongheartmaid. Thank you for the prompt :)

“You look like the manager for Hot Topic.”

He pauses with the cup halfway to his mouth.  Tea for his throat and congested sinuses, brewed on the stove.  The _stove_.  He’s not sure if Ignis has a cauldron stashed away in his apartment underneath all his suits and paperwork, if he’s been muttering mumbo jumbo over the latest concoction to trick his system into accepting the hated veggies, or if he’s maybe sprouted a second, highly vicious brain and decided he’s _done_ , time to poison the Prince.  The _tea_  sure does look like something that’d finish him off… granted, it’s not a vivid green, but he’s never seen _red_  stuff in his entire life.

Noctis won’t even hold it against him if he _does_.  He’s sick of _himself_.  The coughing, the trumpeting of blowing his nose every two damn minutes (all that effort, and he _still can’t breathe properly_ ), the endless fountain of gross tissues into his trashcan, the scratchy voice as reliable as an ancient radio with blown speakers, the watery eyes crusted shut for every morning this _plague_ rattles through his body, and the _sneezing_.  Oh sweet Astrals, the sneezing fits that give him headaches, he _knows_  he’s a pitiful sight after each one, _knows_  that he automatically seeks out the nearest source of heat just to chase the chill from his fingers and bones and maybe soothe the throbbing in every square inch between his ears.

He’s also aware of the fact that he’s like death warmed over, temperature swinging between Ifrit’s hellfire and Shiva’s icy kiss at random, and no amount of time spent in the shower and scrubbing his skin raw and trying to coax _life_  and spike back into his hair will change that.

So he is, understandably, a _touch_  confused by Ignis’ casual remark.  He looks down at himself first, the oversized hoodie and neon bright Galdin Quay t-shirt underneath (comfortable, but one _definite_  assault on the eyeballs), the ratty pants and _ultimate_  fuzzy socks, then to Ignis.  Not once does his gaze stray from his phone, from the play of fingers over screen as he engages Prompto in combat.  But it’s Ignis.  He has _superpowers_  stashed somewhere up his sleeve, always seeming to know when he’s on the move before Noctis is even aware of it himself, up and about to intercept or aid or orbit him until he’s swatted away with whatever non-lethal thing is plucked from the Armiger at any given time.

Okay no, that’s not true.  Ignis might be his adviser, and they might be lovers, but he doesn’t revolve around him like Noctis is the center of _everything_ , thank the Six.  He just tends to _fuss_ a bit when he’s sick.

“I look like who now?”

“The manager for Hot Topic.  Specifically: a disaster waiting to happen.”

“ _Dude!_ Hey Noct, need some aloe vera for that burn?”

“Go fuck a cactuar, Prom.”

“Now _that’s_ a level of kinky even I won’t go near.”  Gladio pipes up, dropping his book low enough for Noctis to see the grin showing off every perfect white tooth _he just wants to knock out with a fucking frying pan_.

Although that would require energy he currently doesn’t have, so he flips them all the middle finger instead and smooshes up into his oh so comfy corner of the sofa, stubbornly ignoring their laughter and wondering what Crowe’s asking price would be for poisonous plants so he can spike the tea himself.


End file.
